Minutes
by deityb
Summary: The world has been systematically devastated for ten years. On the doorstep of 2020, even England has finally suffered. With apocalypse looming, he's met with a visitor long thought dead. FrUK, Language and Some Sexuality. Oneshot


A/N:: This started as a writing experiment. My experiment rules?

**Do not backspace for anything. if you type it, you leave it there. Do not press backspace for typos, idea changes, ANYTHING. Furthermore, you must only write exactly as your mind dictates. Do not try to plot; write as if this is a race you are running.**

And this came of it. My only theme that I went by was simply 'England's in a hospital bed. Write'. And this is FULL of continuity errors. I fixed my typos, as well as added a tidbit, but this is what I wrote, and I intend it to be as it is. I write weird, against rules I'd be better following, but I also love this ficlet. I bawled my eyes out writing it, and I kinda hate myself for the depression it put me in.

But, the idea was fun.

Now, that's not to say this is without errors. The bit where France says the time is likely wrong, but that's the best I could remember. Being a smartass and correcting me will get you tastefully ignored. There are plotholes and a staggered flow, but that's the experiment. I'm not looking for critique; if this was for real, I'd sport it as such. This is just an experiment on how my brain works.

Thankya.

* * *

Fever made it hard to see, the gashes on his arms and chest made it hard to move. The blood in his lungs caused breathing to be difficult, but the lighting in the room was dark, aside the dim one that came from the hallway. That, at the least, was easiest on his eyes.

When he breathed, the down-to-the-bone gashes stretched uncomfortably under bandages, so he kept breathing to a minimum. Besides, the tubes took care of the most of that, for him. He could hear. That was the best sign.

Alfred was arguing with a doctor; something about donating. Saving? It was almost too far away to hear, the details were murky. He heard someone trying to sob in a quiet manner, so that no-one could hear.

December 24, 2019.

Far-left radicals in that part of the government, in the upcoming hysteria of the 2020 prediction, bomb parliament. After the ninth consecutive year of completely-right predictions by a young British schoolgirl (acclaimed as the 'Messenger of God's Wrath' by the papers, as the 'Devil's Puppet' in tabloids. The girl hadn't aged since '10, and had heralded a monthly prediction for the next month since December 2009, wherein she predicted the January 29th twenty-part suicide bomb train attack across Israel.) the public had split into multiple frenzies, across the world.

Each country had suffered through these predictions. America, the wildfires that wiped out the entirety of the great plains. Canada, the unexpected, bloody civil war that ended in a military overthrow of the government in June, '17. Germany, the unexplainable earthquakes that brought Berlin to the ground. Japan's volcanoes and sudden psychopathy. The apparent death of Romano, the subsequent and just as apparent death of Spain (A mix of suicide and the overthrow of Portugal).

That had been one of the eeriest. The both of that pair had been suffering huge financial trouble, though Romano was worse-off. He was younger, weaker. Spain had gone through times harder than this, but Romano had always been shielded from the worst. It was overwhelming to the young man, who caught heavy illness due to his condition. One scorching, dry August afternoon, he traveled to the Vatican, as to at least relieve himself in the least by prayer. However, halfway up the steps of the basilica, Lovino fell to his knees, then to his side. He died there, and Antonio was left suddenly removed of emotion. His laugh, his smile, even his frown and tears did not appear from then on out. Never being allowed to see Lovino's body, he left to Portugal's doorstep, where he fell to his knees in front of the other man, took that hand which held the pistol, and pressed it between his own eyes.

There, he prayed and was shot.

Not long after that, the second rising of the USSR, the annexation of Finland, and the Nordic-Russo war that was continuing, right now. China's induction to the USSR, and the rest of Asia (excluding Japan) following soon after. Australia's war against the USSR. Switzerland and Austria breaking from Neutrality to join the war, Hungary's disappearance. Poland's enslavement. And that wasn't the half of it.

Arthur had been safe. He'd been safe, maybe because the girl was there, in London. At his side, silent about him. Maybe it was luck.

Whatever it was, yesterday had stopped it. In fact, November had ceased the luck. Her words rung in his aching head.

"The son of Britannia will have his fate next, ripped from within. I'll touch his heart with my hand."

He'd disregarded it. Scotland had always claimed to be the 'Son'. He and Wales.

Not him.

As the heart monitor beeped weakly, he drew in a ragged, hard breath, feeling flesh pull and rip. Maybe this was the end. The prediction of the first would come, and it'd all be over. Even before that, it would be over, for him. He would be dead in days, if the girl was right.

The voices died down, maybe they had moved away. Or maybe he was losing his hearing.

But he was tired, he didn't care. He slept.

When he woke, she was there, and there was an unorthodox in her routine. She was predicting, again. It was vague, but it was the same as December 1st's prediction.

"It will end."

He let it be reported, he couldn't think. It was hard to imagine that it was Christmas. Alfred and a crutched, bruised Matthew possibly joined him, but he fell asleep and didn't remember.

It was New Year's Eve, the doctor told him.

He was alone, apparently the world was in shambles, and Alfred had to go home. His president had died. Killed himself, from what the telly told him. Matthew had disappeared on Boxing Day. He could hear war outside the hospital.

Peter had died, yesterday. The whole fort demolished. Died alone, on the sea, in the waves.

Or they said that. No-one found a body.

The last day, and he was watching reruns of an American game show after being spoon-fed green jelly by a nurse. His chest didn't hurt, anymore, but he could feel a few lines on his face. If they were age or scars, he wouldn't likely know.

He didn't care, and it was 11, and he knew because they were showing some movie, considered one of the best. Just to kick off life, say goodbye. He'd seen the schedule.

All through the day, starting when the dateline hit, over near Russia, stations had been cutting out, leaving it to a few stations, like this. Even BBC had gone out which was funny, because he wasn't dead yet, thank-you-very-much.

But then the channel shorted out, and he tutted, reaching a sore arm around for the call button. Eyes fixed on the static, he didn't watch his hand.

Didn't watch what was there instead of the call button. He found it, instead.

Found something soft and warm, texture smooth, some hairs. Scars on knuckles, scar on wrist from shackles.

He smelled it next, that pitiful smell of rain and piss and iron with some salt and something that was pretty once, like a flower dropped in shit.

Then he heard it, the low, quiet voice in muted breaths that made the accent even harder to decipher. It sounded like someone had kicked his throat with a cinder block about thirty times after he smoked no less than fifty packs of fags, but he knew that quiet tone.

"What are you looking for, Angleterre?"

He saw it, then, because he turned around to look, feeling his own greyed eyes suddenly his old spring green, once more. He was those cerulean looking back, flickering with the light of the static. That gold hair was shorter and singed, pulled back in a tight ponytail. He was the canvas jacket with blood stains, with the fleur printed on the left breast, he was the scar on that cheek, he was that unkempt goatee that had been stubble, once, in dire need of a shave. He was hot hands holding on, he was smiling and missing his canine teeth.

"You're dead" Arthur told him past a throat that felt like it was full of molten iron and pepper.

"You 'ave funny dreams" He replied, a grin tugging youth into his lined, dirty face.

Arthur couldn't help but smile back, feeling his own eye patch crinkle up with the movement, "All right. So you're not dead"

"Oui, I got better, as you 'ave said"

They both laughed, one from habit, Arthur was just shocked and didn't know what the bollocks else to do.

"You came here to go with me, then?"

"Non, zat's silly"

Arthur sighed, shaking his head, "Francis"

"You'll see, Arthur."

Arthur's chest hurt, hearing him say the name. His heart squeezed and cried, hearing every letter annunciated in how the Frenchman said his name.

It'd been six years since the bombing of Paris, since the death of the French Republic.

So Arthur was obviously hallucinating.

"What time is it, mm?"

"Il set onze heures cinquante, mon amour"

"I forgot how to talk in frog"

"Eleven fifty, my amour"

"All right" He stared, rising his hand that wasn't still gripping Bonnefoy to his injured eye, pulling off the patch and wincing when it became so much lighter. His eye must still be swollen. But he wanted to see him, "How's the weather"

"British"

He smiled, and so did Arthur. There was a five minute silence.

He tasted him last, because they moved at the same time to do the same thing. Arthur could feel the pins and needles in his arm pulling out, could feel him hurting himself, but throwing his arms around Francis was so much more important, and Francis had the same idea. He still tasted like wine and cheese and snails and bullshit, but like gunpowder and bravery, too. And like tears, too, but that's because Arthur was crying. Francis' coat was off, he was straddling Arthur on the hospital bed, his knee hit the call button, but the hospital was evacuated by now, so no-one could care, anyway. White-gold was grazing his face, the hair was down and it was still long enough to hang and look pretty, because the French couldn't ever not look pretty, and Arthur was bawling into the kiss but wouldn't break away.

He was out of his hospital gown, and Francis was shirtless and his trousers were undone. He was rubbing over Arthur, whispering tearlessly in the best English he'd ever fucking spoken to England's trembling, sobbing lips, and it was the best bloody kiss Arthur had had in his life.

And Big Ben was chiming.

And he was happy, because it would end like this, with them naked and rubbing together and kissing and together.

There were six chimes left, six chimes gone, and Arthur was practically screaming out that stupid fucking French way of telling someone you love them, because he couldn't whisper with how loud he was fucking crying, and Francis was cooing him, almost accentlessly replying in English to the Brit.

Four left and Arthur was begging, and Francis was allowing it, pressing his own perfectly hard self against Arthur because that's how Arthur said he wanted it to end.

Two left and Arthur was rutting against Francis, because it hurt and he wasn't used to it like he had been before, but he didn't really care because it was familiar and he missed it.

And the chimes stopped, Arthur pressing the kiss to a still, eyes shut, arms so tight around Francis that he was probably unable to breathe. His arse hurt, his body ached, but he was ready. And he was ready. And he was ready.

And it was really, really fucking quiet. He could only imagine what hell was going on. He could only pray that it'd be over like this. Whenever it happened.

But then there was a gunshot outside the window, and another silence, and that had to have been a few minutes of quiet.

And that was certainly ten minutes. But his body was feeling a lot less achy, which probably meant he was dying. However, he could feel Francis throbbing in him, and the occasional kiss his lips made against Arthur's open mouth, chaste whilst the Brit was open for a frozen-in-time snog.

Then it happened, there was noise, and crying, and screaming, and Arthur buried his face in Francis' shoulder, but the fucking frog pushed him away, quietly whispering in his mourning ear.

"Listen 'arder"

So he did, for there was nothing better to do, and he heard those sounds in another light after focusing.

The crying was happy, and those screams seemed to be celebrating, and his heart didn't hurt.

"What.."

"It's over, Arthur. War is over."

And so it was, for, after a round of the most back-breakingly good fucking the British Gentleman had experienced in all his centuries, the European countries went out to the streets, and there they found the little girl dead, and Alfred waiting for them.

Granted, the fucking ungrateful ass of a son hadn't experienced it, yet, but, with his entire population now in refuge in Europe, after how the militant Canadian government had annexed American land, Midnight had come for him, too.

Rumor had it, he told them, that midnight had brought something great on each time zone at a time. Everything was fixed, as the hour had rolled over each, but not to how it was.

A few days later, it was learned that the whole fucking world was simple and happier again, and the stories of land reviving, countries rebuilding, the dead nations coming back, and an old forgotten world returning all surfaced.

The girl's death had been from a young man, somewhere in the crowd, who had been described as blond with big, bushy brows. Of course, after all the partying stopped, Arthur would make it first order to go find Peter. For now, however, he was a bit busy sitting on the frog's lap in a pub he'd forgotten, taking a shot for every bit of good news Alfred (and Matthew, which was a treat) told him across the table.


End file.
